


she can get what she came for

by voodoochild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, In Public, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Anthea redefine the phrase "Mile High Club".</p>
            </blockquote>





	she can get what she came for

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle XII prompt of "Mycroft/Anthea, inopportune". Also written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=53188452#t53188452) at the **sherlockbbc_fic** comm. Title from Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven".

Being stuck on a public airplane is bad enough.

Being stuck on a public airplane for twelve hours with an impending international incident, a failing wifi connection, and not one, but _two_ crying children is beyond the scope of "bad" and passed into "horrible". Asiana is a very good airline, but the flight has been plagued with problems; rain delay at Heathrow, wireless on the fritz, and a truly astonishing amount of nosy first-class passengers.

Six hours in, she keeps compulsively checking her Blackberry anyway, because it's keeping her from screaming back at the children and hacking the pilot's channel to complain that the usual jet had been misrouted to Detroit instead of London. This isn't even beginning to take into consideration what the North Koreans might do if they figure out the power behind MI6 is currently out of the equation.

She does hate disappointing him.

"You've done no such thing, my girl. Who could have predicted the necessity of flying to Seoul at this time of the year? And the jet does need that overhaul, else we'll be lagging behind the CIA again, and we can't have that."

He's doing it again, though it's not as if she minds. It's more efficient, having him read her so well that he can anticipate her reactions. It does tend to unnerve people around them, such as the nosy businesswoman with the appalling green suit in front of them. She's turned around to stare at Mycroft, which of course, he ignores.

"We could be halfway there by now if we'd gotten a company jet. It's not as if we don't have the resources," she returns, hitting refresh on the wifi and cursing as the signal cuts out again.

He peers at her from over his newspaper - Svenska Dagbladet - and tsks through his teeth. "By the time it would have taken to requisition a plane or go through other channels, Kim Yeong-nam would have already ordered the counterstrike. We've got fourteen hours to fix this, now don't we?"

"You know I hate Korean politics," she sighs, tossing the Blackberry into her purse. Getting a signal is apparently a lost cause. "It always ends with poisoning, or me practicing my _chil sik sul_ on would-be assassins."

"But you've aced your fifth dan test."

She had. She'd impressed Sahyun Joo-Seuk, and broken a double-block with her foot in an inner crescent kick. She loves taekwondo, it's challenging in the way karate and aikido had never been for her, and well, there are worse ways to keep her skills sharp.

Mycroft's eyes narrow and he abandons his newspaper. He gently pulls her curled-up legs sideways, over the armrest and into his lap. Sliding off one Louboutin Helmour and depositing it on the floor, he examines her stocking-clad foot. There's a livid bruise on the outer arch, running up to her little toe from breaking the blocks.

"Did the ice help? It brought down the swelling immensely, but I can see you didn't leave it on long enough."

She swears every time he does this that she'll stop being surprised. "Didn't I? I iced it most of the night, but I fell asleep over the Bhutan briefing and I suppose the ice pack must have come off."

Her breath catches as he runs gentle fingers over her foot. They don't touch often in public - it would give ammunition to his enemies and distract both of them from the job - but perhaps the darkened interior of an airplane no one on earth knows they're on has made him risk it. She absolutely doesn't mind, if it means feeling his skin against hers, the soft, deft, slide of his long fingers over her feet.

She winces and bites back a few noises of discomfort when he reaches a particularly tender spot, but it's made better by the firm stroke over the sole of her foot. God, she could really get used to this.

A soft inhale, then his movements stop. She opens her eyes to find deep blue eyes locked on hers. "I don't need to inform you, do I," he asks, "that you aren't wearing knickers?"

Shifting position by bending one knee, she opens further, shivering at the increasingly hungry look on his face. "No, I don't think you do. Will you touch me?"

His answer is to tug her over to his seat and hit the switch for the partition to close around them. They have perhaps twenty minutes before someone will alert a flight attendant, who will well-meaningly rustle the curtain and ask if they need anything. She tries to be as silent as she can as she settles astride his hips, skirt pushed up to bare her bum.

"I'd like to review the Humboldt memo, if you please," he says, and she almost laughs and gives the entire game away. "No, just move your Blackberry over here, I'll be able to read it."

"Of course, sir," she says, shuddering as the tip of one long finger lightly strokes along her wet curls.

Oh, this is going to be a challenge, isn't it? Interspersing meaningless business talk with the way his fingers feel in her cunt. He braces her with an arm across her back and his legs drawn up slightly at the knees as he slides two fingers through her folds. She inhales sharply, hips bucking towards more of his touch, and bites down hard on her lip.

"I don't know if I'd use the word 'apportionment' here." The fingers of his free hand brush over her lip and oh, apportionment, synonym for piece, like taking a bite out of something. She does so love his wordplay. "Perhaps 'bequest'?"

And give he does, deft, pianist's fingers penetrating her, stroking in and out of her tight heat while he presses the heel of his other hand to her mouth. Her breath puffs against his skin, and she opens her mouth, tasting ink and hair pomade and the salt-tang of him. Pants as quietly as she can, biting down when he hits a particularly excellent rhythm or drags his fingers over that spot inside her.

She keeps her voice as steady as she can. "Yes, sir. And this bit here - could we perhaps strike the line regarding anguish? It seems melodramatic."

 _Stop your fucking teasing_ , she means and he hears, because he stifles a laugh and redoubles his efforts. It has her writhing against him in barely any time at all, grinding down onto his fingers and begging in a low voice against his ear - _please, please, more_. She wishes they had more time, wishes they had their own jet where she can strip off and fuck him and yell as loud as she likes, with no one to see or hear. It's so hard to be good, to be quiet, and he knows it, damn him.

His voice comes back for her ears alone. "Six minutes and forty two seconds, love. You can come by then, can't you? I know you can, you're so tight and wet around my fingers. I'll taste when you're done, lick you off my hand. You always taste exquisite."

"God, yes, come on then," she says, and he smiles before granting her his mouth to kiss, bite, moan, curse against.

It only takes three minutes, five seconds for him to make her come. Draws it out from her with his tongue slick in her mouth and his fingers slick from her, clever and wicked and relentless. She barely has time to kiss him in thanks, slide back over to her seat, and pull a blanket over his lap before the stewardess rustles the partition, three minutes early.

"Mr. Kant, Miss Rigg, may I assist you with anything?"

The woman pulls the partition open. Mycroft is a little more composed than Anthea is, having pulled out her Blackberry and then had to turn it right-side-up again. She hopes the flight attendant doesn't notice.

"Not a thing," he says. "Will we be much longer?"

"We are five hours and ten minutes from Seoul, sir."

He absentmindedly thanks her, and after she walks away, groans low in his throat. He's hard under the blanket, and they are at the center of the cabin. It won't be possible to garner some privacy for a while.

Hmmm, she'll have to see what she can do.


End file.
